Vir Banal'ras
by InquisitorLynx
Summary: Taerith, future Inquisitor, wakes up one day to find out he's dead. He demands answers, hunting down a particular necromancer for his cause and seeking revenge for his clan. Trans!Lavellan x Dorian.
1. Chapter 1

When Taerith's new life began, he was born into silence.

He could make out the leaves of a tree above him, still and bright green in the dewy summer dawn. A faint breeze brushed a few blades of grass against his cheek, decorating it with glistening droplets which he hardly felt. They made clean streaks in the sticky blood as they dripped back down to the earth.

More than anything, the dagger in his chest commanded his attention. It was a simple blade, no more than a tool for work, and held no design nor mark to credit its maker, but one tended to notice things when they were stuck through one's ribs. Through the haze in his mind, Taerith thought it somewhat odd that it should be there, but couldn't quite put together why.

Naturally, he decided to remove it.

The hand that rose from his side was completely covered in red, dripping with half-dried blood to mingle with that which soaked his sleeve. _Bad,_ he thought, _very bad._ Why was that bad?

He grasped the hilt firmly, staining the tarnished silver, and drew it out of his chest slowly. Warmth filled the wound it left behind and even more blood flowed out onto his front, though his robes would note no difference. They were already tattered and torn and retained only a hint of their former greens and whites. He was filled with a vague sense of disappointment at the fact that he would have to replace them. New robes were always a pain to obtain, in part due to his own pickiness. At least the clan's tailors were always excellent.

He let the dagger fall to his side. His chest should hurt, shouldn't it? But it didn't. Why didn't it hurt?

The wind brushed a lock of hair into his face, which he instinctively pushed aside, smearing more blood on his face. He could feel; lack of numbness was good, wasn't it?

If he sat up, he would die. Would bleed out before he could get anywhere.

His chest was no longer bleeding. Bad—he'd run out of blood.

 _What?_

Something else about his chest. Something… off. Not right. He should be able to smell blood in this heat, shouldn't he? The flies dancing above him could.

Oh. _Oh._

His chest lay flat and still and he was not breathing.

He sucked in a deep breath of air, coughing when it hit his lungs; he'd used more force than necessary, but apparently his breathing was not obstructed. He gulped down air greedily, but felt no relief, only movement in his muscles and fresh flecks of blood on his lips. A dull ache began deep in his torso, responding to the new movement.

One minute later and he was no longer breathing.

No blood flowed out of his chest and his body didn't scream for air. The silence still surrounded him, almost suffocating him—at least, if he could still be suffocated. Something else out of place—aha.

No heartbeat.

He might have laughed but for the fact that he had no air in his lungs.

Making his decision, he positioned his arms beside his body and slowly heaved himself up, hissing breathlessly with the sharp pain in his chest from the movement. He leaned forward once in a sitting position and took a moment to look around.

The carnage surrounding him was vile. He could see the burnt, splintered wood of an aravel buried beneath elven corpses, some with unrecognizable faces and some he knew right away from the vallaslin. Deshanna, his Keeper, lay with her cheek to the ground a few yards away, eyes empty and hands black from magical frostbite.

He clenched his teeth together. Whatever had happened, whatever was going on—too many had died. As the First of the clan, it was now his duty to be their new Keeper, which meant he had to search for survivors no matter how much pain he had to push through.

It turned out that his body was remarkably good at withstanding pain. What would have once prevented him from standing hindered him not at all, and his twisted ankle hurt beyond reason but did not drive him back to the ground. His muscles did not protest; it was only his mind.

He checked the pulse of every elf he could find who was not obviously dead, and then some. Tears did not roll down his face, though not for lack of trying, as it seemed to be yet another feature of… this. He checked and passed by the bodies of friends, family, lovers, and children. None remained alive, and any halla that had not been killed (he had stopped counting their bodies) had run off or been hunted by shemlen.

Not even Ilyria, his beloved. She hadn't even been from the clan, but was rather a resident of one of the nearby cities' alienages, and had come to visit Clan Lavellan on his invite. The clan had disapproved, of course, but he had argued that if they were to become less insular, they might accept such a relationship.

Deshanna hadn't even had the chance to approve his request to bond with her. He was certain she might have.

It didn't matter now. Ilyria didn't even have a face to look at him, even in her death. It had been burnt off. All that identified her were her clothes, impractical for the forest (sparse as it was here, so close to Orlais's deserts) and decidedly not Dalish.

There was nothing he could do here.

He was all that was left of Clan Lavellan, and he had no idea what to do. Traveling would be the first step—he could hide in the thick forests of the Dales, far to the east. He could provide for himself well enough despite his lack of experience as an official hunter and had done so on plenty of solitary excursions. Nobody would know to look for him unless another clan came across the scene and noticed his absence, but it was likely that they would not. He could take the time to figure out exactly what the hell was going on with him. Assuming this wasn't all a trick of demons, of course, but it was feeling a bit too real to be the Fade.

Gathering the bodies to burn and then bury would not be feasible. Over two hundred of his kin lay across the area of about a square mile, and the fire required for that would attract far too much unwanted attention.

He whispered prayers to Falon'Din first, gathering a few trinkets from the ones he had known the best. A copper bracelet from Ilyria, passed down from her late mother; a pair of promise rings from his own parents, exchanged on a day they had always recounted fondly; a beaded necklace his teenaged cousin, an aspiring crafter, had made for herself and had worn every day for six years now; his best friend's favored steel dagger, one of Andruil's designs carved into the halla-horn hilt; and a hunting knife with a ruby in the hilt from Felen, an old lover and fond friend. All but the blades went into a small pouch of fennec leather tied to his belt.

Necessities came next. His own staff had gone missing, so he claimed Deshanna's, strapping it to his back. He found a few pairs of spare robes, clothes, and armor still intact in one of the broken aravels, and took one set of robes, one of leather armor, and some clothes, tucking them into a large leather pack along with the weapons and one of his own leather binders which had thankfully survived the attack. There was space enough in the pack for a few days' worth of food, so he added a few small apples, salted meat, bread, and halla cheese. There were no intact tents for him to take.

He surveyed the scene again, emotionally numb from shock. How these humans could do this was beyond him. He had heard rumors, of course, even from his brief time in cities, where people would try to hide their words from them once they saw his face. Two human nobles, the empress and some other no doubt important politician, were having some more conflicts. They had forces who would clash every now and then, sometimes catching elves or other innocents in the middle. Few ever traveled to southwestern Orlais, so their clan should have been safe.

Evidently not.

A river flowed only a couple miles away. Within walking distance of the camp, but not close enough that travelers would find them by following the water. If only that had worked.

Taerith's legs were not sore from walking the distance, though they should be at this point. He shucked his robes, eager to rinse the filth from his body. Fingers combed through knots and clumps in his hair, which would have been calming except for the frustrating time it took, so he chopped off half of it unevenly, not bothering to try for any semblance of neatness.

He must have looked a complete mess. The thick brown hair atop his head may have looked askew had it not been flattened by water. Cuts and scrapes marked his face on and around his vallaslin, a blue design honoring Falon'Din decorating his bronze skin and tendrils of ink curling around deep emerald eyes. The tattoos touched his shoulders as well, but his wiry arms held the designs of Dirthamen, which dotted his limbs all the way to the backs of his hands, leaving his palms and fingers without marks. He would not honor one of the twins without the other, he had insisted, and the Keeper had obliged.

More scratches interrupted the lines on his arms, but the most grisly was, of course, the gash in his chest. It was deep, but did not bleed, and Taerith took care to reduce the contact it had with water, since it stung. Considering he was skinny even by elven standards—his clan had never had plentiful sources of food—the visual effect of his wounds was fairly emphasized. Hesitantly, he attempted to heal the wound. He was a mage, after all, and surely he could seal this like all others.

Miraculously, it worked. It took a number of minutes and his spirit—not his body—felt weakened by the effort. That was definitely a new feeling, but his body felt more whole and a lot less painful.

He finished scrubbing all the grime off of his body (finding out in the process that yes, he could stay underwater for some time without the need to breathe) then let himself dry out under the hot summer sun, which filtered through the sparse trees easily. Sitting on a rock to dry gave him time to think and time to practice breathing, which he found he now had to do consciously.

Almost everyone he knew was dead. Everyone he had ever thought important, all gone in a single night. And now he was… what, undead? He knew little of death magics except that they tended to be Nevarran, but how in the world had this come to happen to him? From what he could guess, his spirit must have been possessing his body. Which was bizarre, as mortal spirits were not at all the same as those from the Fade, but here he was.

Heading east into the Dales was still his best idea. Going north to Nevarra would be far too much hassle, there were still Darkspawn remaining from the Blight in Ferelden even though it had ended a year ago, Orlesian cities were still hostile towards elves, and he knew next to nothing about the Free Marches. At least in the Dales he would know how to fend for himself. The Emerald Graves would be dense with game this time of year. The outskirts were a popular spot for human hunters, but he knew how to hide.

Perhaps he would venture into towns after a while. A single elf stepping into a tavern every now and then wouldn't put too many people on edge.

Before that, however, he had one last task to do here.

The thought had entered his mind as he sunned himself, images of the camp flashing painfully through his mind. Among the elven bodies had been a few Orlesian soldiers, wearing full suits of heavy armor that still had not saved them from death.

Full armor meant masked helms. Masks which could easily hide a tattooed face, attached to helms that would hide pointed ears.

He returned to camp without a second thought, wearing only a simple shirt and pants and leaving his packs back at the river. He had nothing to lose here. Something in the back of his mind told him that it was foolish and his people would not have wanted him to seek revenge. Well, they were dead now, and so was he, wasn't he? Maybe he would find out how many stab wounds it would take to take him down for good. He had no illusions of surviving this attack; one didn't merely walk into a lion's den and walk out alive.

Few would even notice his lack of breath or heartbeat, he mused, stepping between corpses and forcing himself to look ahead, away from his deceased kin. The armor would hide anything identifiable about him. He knew some of the soldiers wandered about the cities in full uniform, trying to look important and spread the image of whomever they followed. Which side did these follow, the empress or the other one?

He stripped one of the few human bodies of its armor, glad to not have to breathe in the stench which no doubt permeated the area. The outfit would be a bit large on him, but no matter; he put it on over his thin clothes anyway after scraping off the worst of the blood and dirt. He strapped the dead soldier's knives and sword to his belt.

An hour into his walk north he realized he wasn't sweating. He could feel the heat of the sun and the armor, but if he wasn't sweating, his body might malfunction. More than it already was.

A quick frost spell helped solve that problem. He would have to take that into consideration in the future. Or not, since there would be no future for him. Considering his empty surroundings, he practiced breathing again and talking to himself, relearning how to do these things effectively enough to get to where he needed to be. He had no plan, but if he could figure out who gave the order…

He reached town by mid-afternoon, receiving a few odd glances but nothing to indicate that he was too out of place. Only a few soldiers mingled out here on the streets with townsfolk, who were mainly lower class humans. The richer people lived on the north side of town, he recalled from his few visits here with Ilyria, and the alienage lay to the west. The military sector was in the east.

He found the barracks easily enough through the amount of armored soldiers in the area. Some hid their faces and some did not, even once he entered the building. It was sturdy, made of stone, and apparently housed offices as well as beds, as he found out quite by accident.

"What is it, soldier?" growled out the man he interrupted, sitting at a desk in a cluttered and all-too-small room. He wore no armor but an outfit that indicated some sort of status. Its importance was lost on the elf.

Taerith responded with only a half-lie. "Forgive my interruption, monsieur," he said, the words coming out raspy but clear. Thank the Creators he could hold his tongue right now. "I am new here and took a wrong turn. My sincerest apologies." He went to close the door and leave the man in peace.

"No," the officer said, "come in." He waved an arm above the stacks of papers before him.

Not a good idea, not a good idea at all, but disobeying a superior's orders would be suspicious. "Yes, monsieur?"

"What's your name, soldier?"

"George," he blurted out, wincing. He'd pulled out a random human name, knowing that hesitation would get him nowhere. "George du Lac." Was that acceptable?

"You may call me Commander Pierre." The man looked straight at his eyes, which reminded him that he should blink every now and then. "You're not Orlesian. Where are you from?"

"Denerim, sir." One of the few cities in Ferelden he could remember the name of.

"Are you an elf?"

He stilled, which gave the Commander the answer he needed.

" _Pas de problème_. A soldier's a soldier. Have you been assigned yet? And," he continued, indicating Taerith's armor, "what happened to you?"

Blood still remained on some parts of the metal. "No, sir, I have not been assigned. I had… I had a run-in with some Dalish outside of town."

Pierre's eyes narrowed. "How many?"

"Three, sir. They fled before anyone sustained critical injuries. I don't expect they will be a problem anymore." There weren't even any Dalish remaining in the area.

"No, I suppose not," the human said, a grim smile flickering across his face. "Celene had us remove some of the nuisances just the other day. Only a few casualties on our side." He stood up then, offering his hand to Taerith, which he took stoically. "Welcome aboard, George du Lac. I will be your commanding officer for the time being, and you'll receive assignments starting tomorrow. Your shared quarters are just down the hall. Now, before you leave, might I see your face?"

"No."

Before Pierre could register the response, he found a knife in his throat. His eyes went wide as he fell back into his chair, blood running down his chest. He couldn't make any sound louder than a strained gurgle.

Taerith left him like that, closing the office door behind him and turning to the quarters he had been directed to. He had a name: Celene. And he had one of the men behind the attack already dead.

It was a shame the barracks were made of stone. If they had been wood, he could've had them go up like a tinderbox. As it was, most of the residents were either on duty or on break, with only a few reading or sleeping inside. Nobody noticed a single soldier tampering with a few beds in each room on multiple floors, casting quiet spells. Nobody even knew the officer was dead until hours later. He was actually getting out of this one alive.

By the time a number of explosions set those bedrooms aflame, Taerith was long gone to the east astride a stolen horse, armor forgotten by the river where he had retrieved his belongings.


	2. Chapter 2

"Elgar," Taerith growled, tugging lightly on the horse's hair. She flicked her ears at him and continued to drink from the stream. "Elgar, we're leaving."

Elgar apparently disagreed, ignoring him completely in favor of a leisurely walk down the stream, moving quicker each time he tried to get close to her.

"Elgaaaaar," he whined, pouting at his only friend. "We don't have time for this!"

He plopped down on the grass near the stream, flicking pebbles into the water. Of course the horse didn't fully understand him, but eventually she would let him mount her, once she was done teasing him. He wanted to get to Jader soon to track his lead before the mage left town.

Seven years had passed since his death. In those years he had traveled both Ferelden and Orlais, sticking to the shadows and interacting mostly with elves and Dalish clans, when he had the chance, and sometimes interacting with city criminals who wouldn't turn on him for being out of place. A few clans had even offered to take him in, but he had declined—they would no longer welcome him once they determined what he was. He hadn't had a particular goal in mind beyond learning about this Celene, who was apparently empress of the Orlesian Empire, so he spent his time searching for elven artifacts and mages with knowledge in obscure or Nevarran magics. Better to try to figure out what happened to him than sit about idly.

Not that there was much idle about the politics of Orlais, what with tensions rising all over the empire, but he wasn't sure he could do anything about it. Elves were starting to rebel and rumors spread about a possible civil war. Gaspard and Celene's forces had been clashing for years now; they were practically already at war anyway. Announcing it would just make it official.

It was this uncertainty about his ability to act that stopped Taerith from committing himself to Vir Banal'ras, the Way of the Shadow. He wanted to take revenge, but what could one elf do against an empress? He'd taken out a few of her soldiers over the years, sometimes even working openly with Gaspard's, but that was it.

All his traveling gave him plenty of time to learn about his new body, too. Or, rather, the new ways in which his body worked. It only took a bit of willpower to move, breathe, and blink, but making his heart beat took magic. His body wouldn't heal on its own. He could function fine without blood, but it made him look pale and clammy, so every couple of weeks or so he used magic to make his heart beat and infuse nutrients into his blood stream, which made him look a little more alive. That was also enough to keep his hair healthy, though it didn't grow without magical encouragement.

His skin, bones, and muscles didn't seem to deteriorate. He didn't need to eat or drink (but definitely could), and thankfully, certain bodily functions no longer worked, which had been unnerving at first but saved him a lot of time in the long run. He still had to sleep to rest his mind, but only every few days, as his body no longer took as much mental energy to maintain and didn't need rest. His nerves worked fine, and could be repaired unusually easily when damaged. Sexually, he knew he could function if he wanted, but he no longer felt any sexual desire, just as he no longer got hungry.

Demons also stopped preying on him, giving him the assumption that he was not actually in his body the same way as he had been when alive. Was his own elven spirit possessing his corpse?

Overall, the experience was an interesting one.

But he still lacked answers. Why was he like this? Could he ever "live" again? Would he ever pass into the Beyond? Was this some horrible mimicry of the immortality his people had once experienced?

That was why he had to get to Jader. He'd collected a number of contacts during his travels, trading favors and collecting debts and coin, and one such contact regularly sent him lists of mages sailing in from Nevarra and Tevinter. None of them had been useful yet, but he always checked up on all of them just in case they knew something. He rarely talked to them directly, partly because he wanted to keep to the shadows and partly because he had no idea how they might react to a Dalish elf. Tevinter wasn't known for its acceptance, after all.

There was only one name this time, and his contact had politely added a list of things they'd heard about the man.

 _Dorian Pavus. Nobleman. Circle of Vyrantium graduate. Flunked out of other schools. Independent researcher? Bad reputation._

Sounded like a guy who didn't know shit, but Taerith wasn't going to let any chances go. He wanted to know what was going on.

"Elgar," he called once more. This time the horse came to his call. "Let's go."

* * *

Taerith needn't have worried about not getting to Jader on time. He entered the city around noon, got a description from his contact, and found Dorian shuffling through the few bookstores in the city.

It took only an hour of watching to determine that the Tevinter had no direction. Was he here on vacation? Could be; his clothes marked him as rich enough to visit Orlais without a care for the impending war. He didn't carry a staff, which would hurt him if he traveled the roads on his own. Still, there was a chance he was lost and had left Tevinter, considering the notes Taerith had received.

He entered one of the bookstores late in the afternoon while Dorian was still inside, checking out some books two sections away. Botany, excellent. That would make him look suitably Dalish, though he'd probably be run out within a few minutes on the assumption that he was poor. Half the books were in Orlesian, but he could read the ones written in the Trade Tongue, and so picked one to skim while he watched the mage out of the corner of his eye, turning pages every now and then to make it seem like he was actually reading.

Dorian seemed disinterested in most of the books, placing them back on the shelves after either quickly flipping through the pages or simply seeing the author's name. Was he looking for something in particular or just picky? He could just be after books regarding magic. They were sold in these stores, but could be difficult to find, mixed in among all the other books so as to not raise concern thanks to the Mage-Templar War.

The human left empty-handed. As soon as he was out of the store and out of sight, Taerith moved over to check the section he'd spent his time in: Biology and physiology. A healer, perhaps?

 _He was looking at a book from the third shelf for a while,_ he thought, fingers skimming the book spines along that shelf. No titles in particular stood out to him, but…

They were all about corpses.

A grin split his face and he sucked in a breath. It could all just be idle curiosity; the man might have had a friend who died, or might just be starting to explore the science and magic around death, but he had to contact this guy.

He said a brief farewell to the storekeeper, who was no doubt unimpressed by two potential customers leaving without purchases, and found Dorian ten minutes later at the docks staring out at the water.

He was about to greet the other mage, but Dorian beat him to it. "Decided to come out of hiding, have you?"

"I'm sorry?"

Dorian turned around to face him, anger twisting his face. "You've been following me all afternoon. Don't pretend like you haven't. Look, I don't know who you are or what you want, but if you're working for my father, my answer is no. I want nothing to do with you or him and you can send him a letter telling him I am not going back."

That was unexpected. Taerith lifted an eyebrow. "I'm Dalish," he said, indicating his vallaslin. "I have no interest in working for anyone from Tevinter."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I've been following you," he continued, figuring that denial wouldn't get him as far as an actual conversation would. "That's true, but I'm surprised you noticed."

"You hardly blend in here."

"Then why would your father ask me to follow you?"

Dorian scrunched up his nose. "Why follow me in the first place?"

"I have an… interest," Taerith said, speaking quieter as he approached Dorian. He leaned on the rails next to the man. "You're a mage, correct?"

"What of it?" Dorian leaned on the rails with him, obviously unsure about trusting this elf but aware that he would probably not turn him over to the templars.

"Do you know anything of necromancy?"

"And what would you want to know of necromancy? You want me to resurrect a friend for you? Not possible, sorry, there's been a lot of abysmal failures in that field and no successes, and I'd quite like to avoid magical mishaps when possible." Dorian wanted this conversation done with, apparently.

"So you _are_ a necromancer."

Dorian winced, cursing himself mentally. "I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

"Your point?"

"Teach me."

Dorian gaped at him. "I beg your pardon?"

Taerith looked at him straight in the eyes, purposely reducing his blinks to unnerve the human. "The Dalish don't have many mages to start with, let alone those who would delve into such dangerous magics. I hold a personal interest in the dead. Not resurrection, just… fascination, you could say." It would be interesting to see if he himself could be "resurrected" in some way, his body returned to life, but his primary concern was with finding answers.

"As much as I'd enjoy a mutual appreciation of such a fine school of magic," Dorian said, "I'm afraid I have other concerns to attend to."

"So you know enough necromancy to be a capable teacher."

Dorian bit his lip. Somehow he felt he was digging himself into a hole here. "As I said…"

"Other concerns. Right." Taerith rolled his eyes, trying to hide his anxiety. This opportunity could not run away from him. "An offer, then: I have a number of contacts, some of whom can get you some books that you want. I can't read Tevene, or Nevarran, hence why I don't have any such books myself, but I can get them for you. In exchange, you teach me necromancy for as long as you remain in the South."

"And if I travel to, say, eastern Ferelden?"

"I will follow."

Dorian was completely bewildered. Here was a man—a Dalish elf, the sort of which he had never even seen before except occasionally in Tevinter—asking for personal tutelage in Dorian's own specialization for Maker knows what reason the very same day he sailed into Orlais and insisting that he would follow him across southern Thedas for just that. It was ridiculous. Dorian was here to take a break from his homeland and wasn't certain when he would return, especially after what his father had planned, nor even certain where he wanted to go while he was down here, but this man before him—with fairly creepy eyes and breathing which seemed a little off to him—was deadly serious about learning necromancy.

He let out his breath, making a decision. "Let's get to know each other first," he said, putting on his most charming smile. "How about we eat dinner together? I assume you know somewhere good here?"

 _Yes,_ Taerith thought excitedly. He could start working towards answers. "There's a restaurant not far from here that's popular with the merchants. Not too expensive, but it should be to your tastes." He hadn't ever tried it himself, not wanting to waste coin, but he heard it was good. "And not a place I would stand out overly much."

"Kaffas," Dorian muttered, putting a hand on one of his pockets. "I… I apologize. I shouldn't have made the offer. I haven't the coin for it."

"It'll be my treat, then." A nobleman who couldn't pay for his own dinner? Either this guy was surprisingly stingy or really not in a good place. Dorian opened his mouth to protest. "It's the least I can do if you're considering teaching me."

Dorian grimaced. Here he was, not a day in Orlais and suddenly indebted to someone. He almost wondered if the man was here to seduce him; he did know about Dorian, after all, and surely he would know about the rumors.

"My name's Taerith, by the way." He once would have introduced himself as a Lavellan, but he'd buried the name. His clan had suffered enough without him carrying it with him, cursed as he was. "You're Dorian."

"Typically one introduces oneself in these conversations."

Taerith shrugged. "I haven't had many of these conversations."

"Charming."

The restaurant was crowded as it tended to be during the middle of spring, providing plenty of noise which meant plenty of privacy to converse. Neither of them received more than a few glances, though the ones Taerith received lingered longer. He still hadn't quite gotten the hang of looking alive.

The chicken dish he ordered was the first meal he'd eaten in two months, though he ate much less ravenously than his human companion. Poor man probably hadn't eaten all day.

"Let's start then, shall we? This 'getting to know each other' business," Dorian said once half his plate was eaten, waving a hand over his wine as he spoke. "I am Dorian Pavus, as you well know, scion of House Pavus, probable future magister, and altogether incredible man, if I do say so myself." He added a wink on at the end—even if nothing came of it, he did like to flirt. "I graduated from the Circle of Vyrantium a few years ago and spent some time studying under Magister Alexius, a dear friend of mine. His son Felix is also a good friend and a peer of mine." Information he assumed Taerith already knew, but stated regardless. "I've had a tendency towards fire magics, but necromancy caught my eye at some point and I've been drawn to it ever since. It really is fascinating, as you said."

The atmosphere seemed to be removing some of the tension Dorian had to begin with, which Taerith was thankful for. "I'm a wanderer," he said, taking a sip of his wine. It was a bit of a shame that alcohol couldn't affect him mentally; all it did now was numb his tongue. "No family or friends to speak of. I prefer lightning for an offense, but my spells are mainly defensive, meant to deter and incapacitate enemies rather than kill them. Necromancy…" He paused, mulling the words over in his mind. "I've felt a pull towards strange magics, you could say. I have less of an interest in learning how to cast such spells and more in learning the theory behind them. Expanding my knowledge. Learning the spells themselves, or at least understanding how they work, would enhance my understanding of necromancy and magic as a whole, but that is not my goal."

Dorian smiled, tipping his glass at Taerith. "A man after my own heart." While part of his research had to do with Felix contracting the Blight, his own curiosity matched the elf's. "So you just wander without aim? No friends at all, nothing to tie you down to any one place? You're just dust in the wind, ready to travel half a continent with a man you've just met on the chance that he could teach you some magic?"

"More or less. Ferelden would be safer than Orlais, anyway."

"Truly?"

He nodded, watching Dorian eat the last few mouthfuls of his meal. "Both suffer from the war, but there's been conflicts all over Orlais. There's practically a civil war already, but the nobles want to deny it. Do you actually intend to head to eastern Ferelden? Shouldn't you have taken another boat?"

Dorian hummed thoughtfully. "I don't actually have a destination in mind," he admitted. "I've been meaning to go back to Val Royeaux for a while now, however. Marvelous city. But I couldn't afford that unless…" He bit his lip, rubbing a thumb over the birthright glittering at his neck.

Taerith laughed. "Don't worry, ma falon. I have coin."

"You assume I'm taking you up on your request."

"Naturally."

He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. "Fine. I teach you what you want—with a focus on theory, as you'd like—and you pay for all the luxuries a Tevinter noble could ask for."

"All the luxuries?" Taerith asked with a smirk. "I can provide you with hot meals, warm beds, and a comfortable tent for the road, but that's about it. And any books my contacts can find for you." He winked when mentioning the beds, enjoying the light blush that dusted Dorian's cheeks. He'd never been involved with a human before, but he might as well enjoy the time he spent with this one, even if it never progressed past flirting.

Dorian sighed dramatically. "The things I have to suffer. Very well, then, you have a deal." In all honesty, he was looking forward to spending time with someone so interested in magic, though something about the man unnerved him. Not the flirting, but… he couldn't place it.

Three days later, as they shared a tent on the road, he awoke as the birds of dawn disturbed him to find his new friend lying on a bedroll beside him, fast asleep. He almost went back to sleep himself when he realized something.

Taerith wasn't breathing. His heart wasn't beating.

His only friend in Orlais had died overnight right beside him and he hadn't been able to help him.

"Taerith!"


	3. Chapter 3

"Taerith!" Dorian wailed, voice cracking as tears threatened to well up in his eyes. This couldn't be happening, not to him, not to this curious elf he had only just met…

"Dorian," Taerith responded, blinking his eyes open sleepily. At least, he tried to respond; he had to remember to breathe first. "Dorian," he tried again, this time getting the name out.

Dorian looked at him with an expression of anguish mixed with confusion, quickly wiping the moisture from his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. "Taerith."

"Dorian. What is it? What's wrong?" Taerith sat up, worried by the concern in the human's face. "We haven't been found by templars, have we? I assume not, since we're still intact. Or… no, did you receive a message? Some bad news?" Dorian wasn't even fully dressed, wearing simple clothes for sleeping, but he could've left the tent for some fresh air, he supposed.

"I…" Dorian couldn't believe his eyes. This was too real to be the Fade. "You were…"

"I was…?" He quirked an eyebrow. "Don't tell me I talk in my sleep, because I have it on good authority that I don't."

Dorian shook his head. "No, you don't. I had a nightmare. I thought you were… hurt. Bleeding." The lie came easily to him, slipping from his lips before he had time to think about the situation. All he knew right now was that, assuming his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, something was very wrong here. "Forget it. It won't happen again."

The elf gripped his forearm and it took some strength to stop himself from flinching away. "It's alright to have nightmares, Dorian. I understand. These things happen." He let go, offering a sad smile. After the events of seven years ago, he'd had his fair share of nightmares.

He was comforted that Dorian mentioned nightmares. He could deal with nightmares, but he didn't want the man to find out that he was dead. Not yet, at least. Ideally never.

"Since we're both up, shall we move on?" Taerith was already standing up and changing in the tent before he got an answer, and Dorian politely turned his head. This was the first time he'd actually noticed Taerith in the tent with him, he realized.

Taerith was out within minutes, leaving Dorian with his privacy and a jumble of confused thoughts in his head.

The next two days consisted of Taerith trying to get more theory out of Dorian every hour of the day as they rode to Val Royeaux on their horses, and Dorian cursed his own lack of foresight. If he was leaving Tevinter, why hadn't he brought more than two books on necromancy with him? Then he might be able to dig through them and find out what this elf wanted.

He spent his time observing Taerith, trying to pick out what was different about him. His blinking and breathing were often inconsistent; he never ate or drank when within Dorian's presence, citing a preference to eat alone; he avoided physical contact; and if he slept at all, it was usually either away from the camp or while Dorian was also fast asleep.

The third night, as Dorian guessed, was the second time he entered the tent while Dorian was awake. Not that he knew Dorian was awake, of course; he feigned sleep. If Taerith slept in the tent every third day, that would give Dorian a chance to figure out what the hell was actually going on with him.

He fought off sleep for another two hours after Taerith had gone to bed in his own bedroll, wanting to make sure the elf was completely asleep before moving about. It unnerved him that he couldn't hear the other breathe—he hadn't even made breathing sounds when entering the tent. He was either a very, very quiet man or something was wrong, and Dorian was quite certain it was the latter.

Dorian sat up on his bedroll and lit a candle, pulling out one of his books to place on his folded legs. If the light woke Taerith, Dorian would have an excuse.

The elf's eyes remained closed, so Dorian took the chance to look at him as clearly as he could in the dim lighting once his eyes adjusted. After a solid five minutes of his companion very visibly not breathing, he removed the book and crawled the short distance between them. He held two fingers under Taerith's nose.

No breath.

He placed the fingers on his neck.

No pulse.

Taerith didn't stir. At the moment he looked much like a corpse. He didn't even twitch in his dreams.

Thoughts whirled through his mind. Was this a demon possessing a corpse? Possibly, but there were easier ways to hunt down a mage, if less creative, and possessed corpses didn't breathe. They decomposed and stank of decay and fell apart within days. Living hosts were highly preferable.

It couldn't be a regular spirit, either, considering the way the undead seemed to work. Was this some experiment gone wrong? Some strange, mysterious magics he had never even heard about? A well-kept Nevarran secret that had fled to the south? Perhaps the being within the body was the soul of a Nevarran mage, seeking immortality and to augment their necromantic prowess.

"What are you?" he whispered.

"Dorian?"

He jolted back to the present, fumbling as he pushed himself backwards towards his own bedroll and away from Taerith without dropping the candle.

"Dorian, what is it?" Taerith sat up, concern in his eyes. He blinked blearily at the tent's entrance, noting the darkness outside through the small gap that hadn't yet been sewn back up. "It's late. We should sleep."

Dorian kept his breathing from picking up too quickly. He gently placed the candle on the ground between them and pulled his new staff to him, sliding it across the ground. It wouldn't do much in this small space, but if he was attacked, it could focus his magic enough to cast a barrier. "What are you, Taerith?"

The elf cocked his head. "Dalish? If you haven't noticed."

"Oh, no, you're not getting off with any lies here," he growled out, conjuring a small flame to his hand. "You don't eat, you don't breathe, and you don't have a heartbeat. What. Are. You?"

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He almost considered feigning ignorance for a while longer, but Dorian had noticed too much by now. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "That's why I tried to find a necromancer. When I heard a mage had sailed into Jader, I checked you out, and here we are."

"Explain. Start from the beginning."

"There isn't much to explain. One night I was killed. The next morning I woke up with a dagger in my chest." He omitted the part about his clan dying; it wasn't really relevant right now. "I can feel pain and other sensations, but no matter damaged my body gets, it doesn't shut down. Well, I do have to heal it, and I probably couldn't go far if somebody sliced a tendon, but I can't die. Again. I am dead, yes. Or was. I really don't know."

Dorian hesitantly let the flame in his hand go out. "So you just… died? And then got back up again?"

"That's the gist of it."

"How long ago? How old are you? How many people have you asked for help?"

"Seven years ago, thirty-two years old, and none." He shrugged at the last one. "If you mean help with this situation, that is. Not many necromancers travel this far south."

"And your family?"

He winced. "They're gone."

"Oh. I'm sorry about that." Dorian's words were soft and sincere, more than Taerith expected from him. Most of the tension had left his body by now, but he still didn't fully trust the elf. "That's why I'm here, then: To help you find answers."

Taerith nodded, and Dorian noticed that he had stopped breathing between sentences, only taking breaths to speak. Creepy, but understandable, as consciously breathing probably took a fair amount of mental effort. "If you would. I have the coin to provide for you, as I said—I've earned a lot over the years and had no need to eat or drink, which saved me a lot of time and money. If you want more payment, you can have it. My own needs and wants are easily met. I have the contacts to bring in books for you, I can help you hide from templars or people from your homeland if necessary, and I'm a competent mage and hunter."

He paused, squeezing his ear between his thumb and forefinger nervously. "If those terms aren't good enough, I can probably come up with something. But this is your interest, isn't it? I'm like a new discovery placed right in your lap." He'd also grown rather close to Dorian in the week they'd been traveling together. Seven years with only a horse for company, for the most part, had worn him down and he found himself growing very fond of the man very quickly.

"Too true," Dorian muttered. "I… I have to think about this a little bit. This is sort of sudden and surprising and all sorts of things I need to wrap my head around."

"Of course." Taerith settled back into his bedroll, lying down and rolling onto his side to face away from Dorian.

Dorian finally released his staff but left it beside his bedroll as he blew out the candle. He had a lot to think about.

* * *

Conversations between the two travelers were strained and infrequent over the next week. Dorian would poke about for information on Taerith's condition, Taerith would answer, and eventually the dialogue would devolve into arguments and statements of distrust, silence taking over until Dorian swallowed his pride and sought to sate more of his curiosity. By the end of the week it was almost painfully obvious that Dorian was going to stick with the elf, far too interested in him for his own good.

He decided to stop being so unfriendly in the middle of Val Royeaux's markets, tiring of the lack of conversation. "Tsk, we're in the middle of the capital of Orlais and we're covered head to toe in dust and dirt. You look absolutely filthy and we could both use baths. A proper one, not a dunk in some river like you're content to do. Honestly, how I even ended up with you is a mystery. I'm typically much more selective when it comes to traveling company."

"Would your majesty like a massage and some plush rugs as well?" Taerith asked with a smirk.

"That would be a fine start."

"Such a shame you won't be getting any," Taerith said, shaking his head. He stopped not far from a fruit vendor, the table covered in baskets filled with fresh fruits. "Do you need food?"

Dorian put a hand on his shoulder, nudging him so that he started walking again. "I need a full meal, not a couple of morsels, but I would rather bathe before heading into any restaurants around here. Need I remind you where we are and what we look like?"

"You've mentioned that at least twice now and I've gotten your point, shem."

"Oh, snappy today, aren't we?" Dorian said, face contorted in mock surprise. "By the way," he continued, lowering his voice. "Please keep breathing. It's rather odd when you stop and I'd rather not have to explain things to anyone to stop them from running you through with a sword."

Taerith mumbled something under his breath, though he was glad for the reminder. He'd gotten used to Dorian's presence and comfortable around the human—apparently comfortable enough to forget to breathe. "You are a stunning man," he murmured a minute later. "It wouldn't surprise many if I said you were the one who stole my breath."

"I am rather stunning, aren't I? How kind of you to notice." Regardless of his words, a light blush took over Dorian's face and Taerith grinned widely in success. "Ah—here. Please tell me this place is within out budget."

They had stopped at the edge of the market district, in front of a building that looked much like all the others nearby: Red brick walls, sky blue decorations, and gold glittering here and there. It wasn't particularly new or fancy, but it was bright and not at all run-down. A pristine white sign above the door declared the name in letters too flowy and stylized for Taerith to read. Probably Orlesian, anyway.

"There will be cheaper places elsewhere."

Dorian restrained himself from pouting. "We're right next to the market and within an hour's walk of any number of restaurants. The docks are close by. The university is less than two hours away. Any farther and I'll hardly have the time to check anything out."

Taerith blinked. It shouldn't surprise him that Dorian was actually interested in seeing the city's sights. His own interest in the city was… less. Orlesian humans made his skin crawl. The rich ones, at least, which seemed to populate the city, and the military ones, which were absent for the most part. "We can afford this place, if you really want."

"Don't you want to visit the university? It's got a library, you know. Undoubtedly filled with—"

"—Guards who want to keep elves out."

"Filled with books about death and odd magics," Dorian continued after a pause. "How long have you been away from cities, exactly? I do believe the empress passed a law allowing elves access to the college a few years ago."

"And you believe I'll be let in, no questions asked, no examinations, no excuses to kick me out? Whatever the law says, the people won't always enforce it. And the people don't like or accept elves, let alone Dalish elves."

"Ah."

He shook his head. "Come on, then. Let's book a room."

Dorian reserved them both a room for the week, almost surprised to find enough gold in his pouch to pay for it. The elf must have slipped it to him when he wasn't paying attention. It made sense, he thought; an elf flaunting any level of wealth would be treated suspiciously or robbed. He, on the other hand, was a nobleman, and expected to have coin. Once it was bought, Taerith patted his shoulder and disappeared, promising to return shortly.

They were to share a room, on Taerith's insistence, to save money, since he didn't want to accidentally spend it all now that he had to allot for food and lodging. That left them with a comfortably-sized room with a single large bed in it, two bedside tables, a hearth, a loveseat between the hearth and the bed, and a bath a few feet to the left of the seat. At least sharing a bed wouldn't be an issue, with how little Taerith slept.

Dorian took the first bath, filling and heating the basin magically, stepping into the water with a sigh. A few minutes later Taerith returned, dropping a bag on the bed.

"What do you do at night, Taerith?" Dorian asked once he was comfortable, rinsing the dirt out of his hair. "When you're not sleeping, that is."

The other mage took a seat on the loveseat, not wanting to mess up the bed though it would probably be more comfortable. He didn't look directly at Dorian, but the human was within his sight. "Sometimes I explore. Other times I practice magic." He shrugged. "When traveling on my own, usually I do whatever I would be doing in daylight. Traveling, gathering materials or rare items for people, getting rid of problems."

"Getting rid of problems?"

"I kill people."

The sounds of water splashing stopped. "Maker's breath, you're an assassin?"

"Sometimes." He looked over at Dorian, whose hair was soaked and clinging to his face, white foam covering most of it from the soap he had lathered up in it. "Only people who deserve it. Sometimes I just mess with them. It's…" He waved about a hand in the air. "These people hurt others. The ones they've hurt want them gone or inconvenienced. Sometimes there's not enough people around to do the job, so when I'm around cities, I ask around to see if I'm needed. They get revenge, Orlesian nobles get hurt, and I get coin. It works out."

"And you don't ever think you're in the wrong?" Dorian resumed washing his hair, but slower this time. "That the people you're hurting could actually be good?"

"Not when they purchase slaves to hide away in their bedroom closets, no." Taerith's voice was cold. He turned back towards the hearth, lighting it with a flick of his hand, if only so he had something to look at.

Dorian winced inwardly. This wouldn't be the appropriate time to talk about slavery, though he was curious about the elf's views. "What are your plans for tonight, then?"

"Sleep," he answered. "I prefer to sleep every other night unless I have things to do or watch to keep."

"And this evening? There's nothing to hold your interest between now and when you go to bed? Aside from a bath, of course. Maker knows we've received enough stares for our miserable state today."

He tilted his head, looking at the human again. "Dorian, you've received less than half the stares I have. They don't care that we look like we've been traveling, they care that I'm a Dalish elf walking around the wealthy areas of town with a well-groomed human." His lips curled up in a snarl. "It probably looks like I'm your pet."

Dorian furrowed his eyebrows as he began scrubbing his shoulders and chest, hair now fully rinsed. "I—"

"I don't know what you're going to say, but you should probably not say it." Taerith turned his eyes back to the fire, watching as it slowly ate at the logs. "Obviously I am not your pet or your slave. But I am also not your personal project, as much as I want you to research and help me understand this. I am a person, first and foremost. Do not forget that, shem."

"I won't," he promised quietly. He wasn't sure how he'd thought of his companion up until now, but bit back any words he wanted to say to defend himself. It was entirely possible that he would think of Taerith as an object of research without thinking about it, and the elf seemed very aware of this.

"As for things to hold my attention this evening, I'm afraid naked shemlen don't stir my loins quite like they used to." The corners of Taerith's mouth twitched. As attractive as Dorian was at the moment, he wanted to needle the man more than flirt with him right now. "I'll bathe, as requested, and read through the books you brought with you while you have dinner, then we can talk more about death, decay, and other delightful topics in the bedroom."

Dorian let out a hum. "Talking about the bedroom, I must admit to some curiosity. How does your body work? Is it the same as before? Are there differences?"

Taerith's laugh came out breathless, a sure sign that Dorian had caught him by surprise. "I'm not sleeping with you that easily, you know."

"I didn't mean—"

"You only need to know that if you're going to sleep with me. There is little gain in learning such information academically." He watched in amusement as Dorian returned to rinsing himself. "By the way, the bag on the bed, it's got clothes in it. One set for you and one for me, to save your sorry noble arse from the despair that dust and dirt bring with them. Why you never packed a spare set of clothes is beyond me. Never been on the road before?"

"I hardly had the time to think about it," Dorian said dryly. "I didn't leave Tevinter in the best of circumstances. Next time I flee someplace, I'll be sure to tell myself, 'Dorian, don't forget your spare clothes, the walking dead may very well start dressing you if you don't take care of yourself.' Although I could have done with bringing some spices with me."

"Complaining about my cooking? Fine, you can trap and cook it next time. I don't need any."

"It completely lacks flavor. Honestly, I thought you simply enjoyed bland food until I found out you didn't eat."

Taerith snorted. "Are you going to complain about Elgar as well?"

"There's worse horses you could have bought."

He rolled his eyes. "I stole her from the Orlesian army."

Dorian's eyebrows shot up. "You're serious."

"It's a rather long story that I haven't the time for right now."

"We have lots of time right now."

"Why did you flee Tevinter?"

Dorian dropped the conversation there, taking the hint. As different as their cultures were, and despite the flirting, he wasn't certain the Dalish would accept or understand his reasons for leaving. For all he knew this man was just playing with him. "Please tell me you didn't get me something awfully Orlesian to wear."

"It doesn't have snakes or anything like your Tevinter clothes," Taerith said, "but no, it's rather plain. I'm not spending a fortune on you."

"Good to know I'm appreciated."

"I'm the reason you're bathing here and not in a river right now," he pointed out. "I'd say you're plenty appreciated."

A thought occurred to Dorian, and he chose his words carefully before asking his next question. "May I ask you something?"

"You're always asking me something. If you mean you want to ask something personal, then ask anyway."

"I don't want to pry," he said, but Taerith held up a hand.

"The worst I can do is refuse to answer. Ask."

Dorian took a deep breath. "I don't know if this is too nosy, but it's something I've noticed and been curious about. You are a man, yes?"

"Yes. Excellent observation skills, da'len. I commend you."

"Da'len?"

"That wasn't your question."

Dorian sighed. "Well, the few nights where you've slept and shared the tent, I've noticed that… Well, your chest… It's not as flat as most men's." He worried at his lower lip. "I suppose I just wanted to confirm that you were a man and I wasn't assuming things based on how you present."

"Yes, I bind my chest most days. Yes, you assumed my gender based on my appearance. Yes, your assumption was correct and I am a man." He frowned in thought. "Don't assume with Dalish though. Had you met me when I was younger, before I married, you would have assumed me to be a woman and I would have killed you."

"You're married?"

"Was." Taerith poked at the fire. "But we are not going to talk about that now. Finish bathing so I can wash and you can eat."

As if on cue, Dorian's stomach growled. "Good plan," he mumbled.


	4. Chapter 4

Taerith knocked twice on a sturdy wooden door, then paused, then knocked three more times. The door opened wide and he was greeted by a young elven woman dressed in red and yellow, blond hair cut unevenly short. She grinned upon seeing his face, teeth flashing white in the evening darkness. "Tae! Wondered when you'd be back." She stepped back from the door, walking backwards into the house and vaguely indicating that he should come in too.

He entered, closing the door behind him, and the two walked the short hallway to the house's living room. There were a few other inhabitants, either going about their business or lounging about because they had no other shelter to go to at night, and some waved at him in recognition. A few were new faces he hadn't seen before.

"So! You've been gone a few months now. Doing some work elsewhere? Or did you finally find yourself one of those mages you were looking for? Can't have, I suppose, else you wouldn't've come back here. Unless they're a fancy mage, all posh and self-important. There's some bread and meat in the kitchens left over if you're hungry," she said, plopping herself down on a sofa. Taerith sat next to her, eyeing the table in front of them. It held a few scattered papers—reports, requested jobs, and whatnot.

He shook his head. "I already ate," he lied. "I'm here for a couple of reasons though, Sera. One: I did find my mage."

Sera clapped her hands together. "Took you long enough! You'd think there'd be more stray mages about willing to help with whatever you need, but they're all caught up in their own business, aren't they? So, what're they like?" She leaned over towards him. "Tell me she's a cute woman. Tell me you're not going to keep up this awfully boring 'I don't care about anything anymore' act. Even fancy mages have to get bored with that."

"Handsome man," Taerith responded, raising an eyebrow. "He's a Tevinter noble. Dorian Pavus. I'd rather the Friends not inconvenience him; if anyone takes issue, notify me first."

She let out a low whistle. "Didn't think you'd be one to buddy up with nobles, Tae. You and him getting friendly already?"

"No. I need his magic, he needs my money. He left Tevinter without enough to get by." He shook his head, pulling a small piece of paper out of his coat pocket and handing it to her. "Have your contacts look into obtaining those titles. I've got the coin to reimburse them if they can get their hands on them."

Sera skimmed the list. "What the shit?" she asked. "What did you do? Go out and fetch yourself a personal necromancer?"

"Yes."

"And here I thought I was the weird one. What the fuck are you up to, Tae?" They had only known each other for two years—Sera had joined the Friends of Red Jenny three years ago at only 16 years old—but they'd held their distance and knew little personal information about each other. "Last time you took a job here you almost got yourself killed. Still not sure how you got out of that one. And now you're here with some fancy-britches who knows creepy magic. Maybe it's not my place to ask, but—what the _hell_? You hate nobles as much as I do, and you know that Tevinter nobles have elf slaves, right? So what are you doing with one, fetching new books for him?"

Taerith gritted his teeth together. There were things that bothered him about Dorian, yes, but he'd been hesitant to ask anything, afraid of the answers. He didn't want someone so useful to be as repellant as he feared Dorian could be. "I could kill him myself if I needed to defend myself," he said, "but his necromancy will serve useful. For what reason, you don't need to know, but those texts will help me as much as they help him."

"So you want me to get my contacts to sneak around so you can sneak about with your new sneaky friend doing sneaky creepy weird-arse magic things."

"Can you?"

She threw her hands up in the air in frustration. "Right, yeah, I can do that. Go on and be mysterious, see if I care. Go on, then, go back and find your friend, tuck him in and say goodnight or whatever it is you do with him."

"Thank you, but I was also interested in seeing if there was anything I could do to help." He might as well, while he was in town; nights could get terribly boring when he didn't need to sleep. The extra coin wouldn't hurt, either, now that he was paying for Dorian. "Any jobs need to be done?"

"Well…" she said after a moment, pulling a paper out of the mess on the table without having to dig for it. "Lord Abernache, pompous dickhead like the rest of them. He owns some places on the docks in the city, yeah? So it goes like this: People grow and make food, and then they bring it to Val Royeaux. 'Cept there's a war going on, so travel's rough and people get hurt. Lord Aubergine sends his people to get the goods, promises to send money later. Thing is, he never sends the money. The food gets put in a warehouse, which then gets used by one of his rich restaurants, which then gets eaten by snobs who pay a fortune for stolen food."

Taerith pursed his lips, thinking. "So we don't kill the guy, because that's a bit much," he said with mild disappointment. "So we either take his coin or take his food."

"Both!" Sera said gleefully, pounding a fist on her knee. "At least, now that you're here. We were just going to go for the money, but we could use your skills."

"I'm not quite as sneaky as you are."

"Look, we've got someone who's going to get the coin. They're going to find a stash and replace it with rat droppings." She snickered and Taerith couldn't help but grin. "They might even ruin his masks too, if they can find them. What you're going to do is knock out the guards at the warehouse. Don't kill them; poor things probably don't even know what's going on. Just knock them out or freeze them or some shit. We'll have the food out within an hour, so you can keep watch or something after."

"I can do that."

"'I can do that,'" she mimicked. "Andraste, don't you ever have fun? You're all doom and gloom and sad and serious. Sort of creepy actually. But we're out tonight, since you're here." Sera stood, replacing the paper on the table and yelling down the hall. "Jean! Marcy! Lily! We're off tonight!"

"What for?" came a muffled shout.

"Just get ready to go!"

* * *

Taerith barged into the inn room, slamming the door against the wall and lighting the candles next to the bed with a flick of his wrist. "Dorian, get up," he said, looking over at the human in question, dark hair spilling over the cream-colored pillow.

When the response wasn't enthusiastic enough—slight movement and some mumbled words—he walked over to the bed and placed his hand on the back of Dorian's neck. The man swore, sitting upright.

"Sweet Maker!" he hissed, holding one of his own hands over the cold spot. "You don't need to use magic to wake me up."

"That wasn't magic. I'm _dead_ , Dorian. My entire body is cold. Now get up and dressed so we can leave." He threw Dorian's clothes onto the bed and started packing away the few objects they had removed from their bags.

"Maker's breath, what happened?" Dorian breathed, seeing a spot of blood on one of Taerith's sleeves. "You're bleeding!"

"Not really. I'm dead."

"So it's not your blood."

"It is my blood. I sort of ran out of blood, so I'm not bleeding anymore. Not that I had much to begin with." He glanced back at Dorian. "Pretty as your body is, we'll draw less attention if you get dressed before we leave. Get to it, shem."

Dorian grimaced but pulled on the shirt. "Might I ask why we're fleeing the city? We haven't even used up our week!" He squinted at one of the windows, curtains drawn closed before it. "Is it even daylight out yet?"

"No. We've got at least an hour before dawn, maybe two." Taerith pulled one of their packs over his shoulder, effectively hiding the bloody stain on his leather coat. "I ran into trouble. Got seen by someone. Shit happened."

"I can see that, but that hardly seems like a reason to run out of the city at this ungodly hour."

"How many other Dalish elves do you see around here, Dorian?" he asked pointedly. "Not to mention that we've been seen in public together, so people would accuse you of conspiring with me."

"Did you kill someone?" Dorian asked, pulling on his boots and lamenting the poor state of his hair. He didn't like to think of himself as fussy, but starting his day without proper grooming did make him mildly upset. "Or fail, considering your arm?"

Taerith pulled out a small coinpurse, waving it about a little so that it jangled. "I succeeded in my mission. No deaths, just chaos. But really, come on, we need to go before word gets out."

"Yes, yes, as you insist." Dorian grabbed the other pack, blinking unhappily in the dimness, and doused the candles.

By the time the sun peaked out of the horizon, they were well on their way south, sitting comfortably on Elgar's back as the horse trotted along the path. It wasn't until noon that they stopped to break for lunch, letting Elgar munch on some grass as Dorian ate a meager meal.

"Now that we're suitably away from society," Dorian said between mouthfuls, glancing at the plains around them. The space was almost unnerving, and the ravens pecking at the ground near them even more so. "Mind telling me what that was all about?"

Taerith was tending to his arm, having stripped his shirt off. He tenderly ran his hand along the vicious wounds, tendrils of magic sewing the flesh back together again and causing him to wince. "Like I said, shit happened."

"Of course. You just went out, got stabbed for no reason at all, and came running back to drag your necromancer behind you as you fled the city. Silly of me to think there could possibly be more to this."

The elf shook his head. "We raided a thieving nobleman's warehouse. I was to knock out the guards. Missed one, so he snuck up on me. I knocked him out too, but he probably alerted someone else. We didn't get as much as we intended but it wasn't a failure."

"I suppose there are worse things you could have done." He looked at Taerith's arm with concern. "Dead or not, won't that get infected? You haven't properly cleaned it."

"I've never gotten an infection before."

"That doesn't mean you won't get one."

"I'll be fine, Dorian. Promise."

Dorian shook his head disbelievingly but did not press the matter further. Instead, he took in the sight of Taerith's torso.

He wore a sleeveless leather binder that went down to his stomach, with thin scars along his lower stomach and arms and thicker, darker ones on his shoulders. The same shoulders featured blue tattoos in a different design than that on his face, something more harsh and dotted than the flowing tendrils along his cheeks and forehead. What he hadn't seen before was the beaded necklace he wore, imperfectly round beads resting against his chest.

"If I may ask…" he began. Taerith gave him an inquisitive look. "The necklace—who was it from? Your wife?"

Taerith's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "No, my cousin. I don't—didn't have a wife."

"Oh. I thought you said the other day that you were married." A thought breached Dorian's mind, something he probably should have considered before asking. "A… husband, then?"

"No. I've never been married." He subconsciously reached for the copper band on his wrist now that his arm was healed, leaving one more nasty scar. "I almost had a fiancée, but she was killed."

"I am sorry for your loss," Dorian said. He had little else to offer. "And I am sorry for bringing this up; I hadn't meant to pry."

Taerith waved a hand. "My… existence is different now. I am not the same person I was back then." He gave a wry smile. "A different lifetime, you might say."

"Well, now that we're out here, where do you suggest we head next?"

Taerith had considered returning to the place where he'd died; he hadn't been back in any of the past eight years, and it could hold some clues, but he was reluctant to go there. "There's a few small villages to the east," he said instead. "We can stay there for a few weeks, get to know each other better and whatnot, and then head back up to Val Royeaux to collect some books I've asked for."

"Really?" Dorian sounded genuinely surprised. "You've sent for some books already?"

He shrugged, pulling his shirt back on now that the human had finished eating. While he enjoyed the sun on his skin, sitting out on the plains made him feel vulnerable. "The books interest us both and may help us find answers, and I have friends who can get them to us. What about you—Tevinter noble, yes? Or are your issues with Tevinter such that you have no friends who can obtain texts for you?"

"I still have a few connections. I'll write a few letters when I get the chance. Intended to, actually, before you so rudely woke me up this morning."

"Shall I sling you over my shoulder and carry you away next time?"

Dorian shook his head, chuckling. He stood up and dusted a few crumbs off of his clothes. "Shall we get moving, then?"


End file.
